“Yes, you do! Stop bein’ such a damn fool!”
“Come on.” Toby tugs on my sleeve and leads me out the door.
“Do they always fight like that?” The growing tension in the air is palpable.
“Pretty much. It’s like sport for them. You get used to it after a while.”
“I don’t know how.” I eye Roy’s little cabin. How often does he allow anyone inside?
“You’re probably gonna be the first person to step inside that place … ever,” Toby says, as if reading my mind.
I’m certainly not welcome to. “Do you think he has it booby-trapped?”
“Oh. Definitely.” Toby says with a mock-serious face before it splits into a grin. “Holler if you get caught in anything.” He walks toward the gate that leads to the clearing behind the barn where several goats graze.
“Hey, wait! Did you hear about that bear that’s been coming around?” Is it hiding in the tree line, watching us at this very moment?
“Yeah, Mom said something.” He seems unconcerned.
“Shouldn’t you bring a gun with you?” How is he so chill about the possibility of a roaming bear, especially after what happened with his brother?
He throws a thumb at the barn where Muriel continues to berate Roy for being stubborn, and he continues to deny his need for any help, despite him lying on the cold ground with God only knows how many broken bones and, possibly, internal bleeding. “You think any animal is crazy enough to come around with that goin’ on?”
I shake my head as I climb the steps that lead to Roy’s front porch. Oscar slinks behind me, keeping five feet away at all times. With unease, I step inside.
I never put much thought into what the inside of Roy’s cabin might look like. It’s plainly designed as I would expect of a man who lives alone in the woods—the kitchen on the right, the living room off to the left, two doors at the back, which lead to what I’m guessing are his bedroom and a bathroom. If he has a bathroom. There is little in the way of furniture—an old green-and-yellow woven chair that I would bet was rescued from the dump or the side of the road sits next to the woodstove, a small rectangular table for two, but with only one chair, and a gun rack on the wall that holds three guns. I’m sure they’re all loaded.
But, what surprises me are the three full walls of floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookcases—all measured and cut and trimmed to perfection. They’re the kind of high-end built-ins I’ve been dreaming about for beneath the stairs at our house. The kind that cost triple what I want to pay.
Roy must have made these.
Just as he likely made the countless wooden figurines that fill them. Deer, bears, wolves, fish, pigs, whales … My amazed eyes graze the shelves, struggling with where to focus. There are people, too. Intricately carved pirates and gnomes, old men with canes, pregnant women cradling their bellies, children running. There’s an entire shelf dedicated to a little girl with pigtails—laughing, skipping, sleeping. One has her arms wrapped around the neck of a dog—or maybe a wolf—that’s twice her size. There are wooden bowls, wooden spoons with long, narrow decorative handles …
My mouth hangs open in amazement. There are hundreds of them. Maybe thousands, and the detail in each is astonishing. Some have even been touched by a paintbrush.
That miserable old man out there is an artist.
In fact, every detail in this cabin that involves wood seems immaculate. The trim that frames the windows is cut with precision, the wide-plank floorboards are evenly stained, the kitchen shelves that hold dishes for one and several weeks’ worth of canned goods look sturdy and secure, mounted to the wall. There are no sloppy, uneven cuts anywhere in here.
“She’s not doing anythin’ to your damn stuff!” Muriel’s scolding voice carries through an open window, reminding me that I have a purpose here and I’m invading Roy’s private space against his wishes. I grab the navy wool blanket that sits folded on the armchair, and then head for the door.
A framed picture sitting atop an old trunk beneath the window stops me in my tracks. It’s a studio portrait of a man in a cowboy hat with his arm draped over a pretty blonde woman’s shoulders. A child sits between them. A doll-like girl of two or three years old, with cherub cheeks and expressive blue eyes. She’s been dressed much like a doll, too, in a blue gingham dress, frilly socks, and white Mary Janes, her sable-brown locks secured by a matching blue ribbon. In her chubby grip is a wooden animal like the ones on these shelves.
It’s a moment before I realize the man in the picture is Roy.
He’s much younger—his face clean-shaven and marred by only a few wrinkles—and a few pounds lighter, but what’s the most jarring is the crooked grin he’s wearing.
There’s no indication of when it was taken, but it has a department store $9.99 sitting fee vibe to it—textured gray background, poor lighting, stiff posing. Roy is in an outfit much like the one he wore to the Ale House—a button-down shirt, jeans, and his broad cowboy hat. He’s also wearing a red-white-and-blue tie with a star on it that reminds me of the logo for a restaurant chain back home called the Lone Star. Based on the woman’s feathered hair and acid-washed jeans, I’m guessing this was taken some time in the ’80s, maybe early ’90s.
This must be Roy’s wife.
But I don’t remember Toby ever mentioning a daughter.
I glance around. It’s the only picture in the cabin from what I can see. That he has it on display decades later, and sitting within view of his chair, says these people must be important to him—and that he probably hasn’t seen them in a long time.
What happened to them?
“You find the blanket on the chair, Calla?” Muriel’s holler pulls me from my snooping.
I rush outside and to the barn to find her still looming over Roy, a stern scowl furrowing her brow. “You don’t even know what all needs to be fixed inside you yet. You could be in the hospital for weeks! And how are you gonna milk those goats with one arm, huh? Or fire your gun if you need to?” I wonder if it even fazes her that she’s scolding a man as he lies on the ground, injured.
“Carefully,” Roy grumbles.
“Yeah, I can see it now.” Muriel snorts. “You’re liable to shoot yourself in the foot while you’re at it.”
“It’d be less painful than this conversation.”
“You don’t want my help? That’s fine.” She throws her hands up in the air, stepping out of the way to make room for me to stretch the blanket over him. “I wasn’t gonna offer, anyway. I don’t have time for your chores. Got enough of my own. But don’t be an idiot. You got all these chickens and goats and those wild dogs of yours that need carin’ for.” She pauses a beat. “Calla, here, will come and help you until you’re back on your feet.”
My head snaps back and I shoot her a wide-eyed “what the hell?” glare.
She smiles encouragingly. “She’s a good girl. Smart, and a hard worker.”
“I have no idea how to milk a goat,” I stammer, broadsided by this sudden turn of events.
“You didn’t know how to garden either, did ya? You two will be good for each other. You have stuff in common.”
Roy and I have literally nothing in common, I want to scream, but I can’t seem to find my tongue.
“And we help our neighbors. That’s what we do.” Muriel nods to herself as if passing her verdict.
Even when our neighbor is an angry, mean old man?
I hold my breath, waiting for Roy to spit on the idea of my aid, so I can bow out gracefully.
But for once, he isn’t arguing with Muriel, his shrewd gaze watching me intently.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jonah strolls in just after seven p.m. as I’m shoveling the last piece of chicken into my mouth.
“Couldn’t wait for me?” He tosses his baseball cap on the hook.
“No. I was hungry.” And irritated that he landed forty minutes ago but took this long to make his way home, despite my two texts to tell him dinner was ready.
; He leans in to kiss me. “Good day?”
My nose catches a hint of campfire smoke. “Horrible day. Possibly the worst day I’ve had since moving here.”
Jonah scrubs his hands in the sink and listens as I give him details.
“How bad is it? Have you heard anything?”
“Muriel called about an hour ago.” After all their bickering and posturing, she practically chased the ambulance to the hospital in Palmer. “They’re keeping him overnight, but he’s doing better than expected. I mean, he has three cracked ribs, a fractured collarbone, his arm is broken in two places, plus he has a mild concussion and bruising all over his body. But it could have been way worse. You wouldn’t believe the pile of wood that fell on top of him.”
“Barely a scrape, then. When shit like that happens, people die.” Jonah settles onto the bar stool beside me. He frowns at the TV where the news broadcasts footage of the wildfire he’s been fighting daily down in the Kenai Peninsula. They’re already claiming it could become one of the most expensive forest fires in the entire country this year, if they don’t contain it.
“So, what’s goin’ on with his livestock, then? They gonna fend for themselves until he’s home?” He picks a piece of chicken off his plate with his fingers and shoves it into his mouth, as if too starved for basic table manners.
“That’s the best part! Guess who Muriel tasked with the responsibility of taking care of his twelve goats and flock of chickens, beginning at six p.m. sharp tomorrow night? While Roy supervises, of course,” I add bitterly. Toby and Teddy are covering until then, at least.
Jonah’s face twists with disbelief. “Why didn’t you say no?” I catch the accusation in his tone, as if it’s somehow my fault I’ve gotten myself into his predicament.
“How could I? Muriel’s all ‘help thy neighbor’ and the guy was literally lying on the ground, bleeding.”
“Why isn’t Muriel doin’ it, then?”
“Are you kidding?” I snort. “The two of them in the same room is like mixing a vat of bleach and vinegar.” The toxic fumes are enough to choke anyone within a mile radius.
Jonah shakes his head. “You still should have said no. That asshole would have said no. He did, remember? When we tried to get him to take Zeke.”
“Yeah, well, I’d like to think I’m better than Roy.”
“You are better. Nicer, smarter … A helluva lot prettier.” He leans in and plants a quick kiss against my jawline. “Also, a huge sucker.”
“I’m not milking his goats,” I say with more defiance than I feel.
“You told Muriel that?” Jonah’s eyes twinkle with amusement, knowing full well that I haven’t.
“He has one good arm. He can do it.” Though the instructive YouTube video that I watched earlier suggests otherwise. “Or you could do it, if you come with me tomorrow night.”
Jonah is already shaking his head before I even finish speaking.
“Come on! I don’t want to go there alone!”
“Look at that!” He jabs his fork in the air at the TV screen. “There’s no rain anywhere in the forecast and every day gets worse. I’m lucky I got home when I did tonight. There are hundreds of people on the ground, fighting this. They’re there around the clock.”
I watch the billow of smoke that pollutes the sky. It’s hard to argue with that. It also may be a bad omen for our upcoming plans. I hesitate asking the question, afraid of the answer. “What about this weekend?”
He frowns with confusion.
“For my birthday?” Has he forgotten my birthday?
“Yeah, yeah. Of course we’re goin’.” His brow furrows. “Look, if I’m home in time tomorrow night, I’ll go with you to the asshole’s house. But I can’t promise anything. There’s literally thousands of acres on fire, and what Sam has me and the other guys doin’ doesn’t seem to be makin’ a dent.”
Does Sam have all his guys working as hard as Jonah does? Are they putting this many hours in, too? Or is this Jonah, consumed with a task?
I don’t ask. I smile and say, “It’s okay, I get it.” Though I’m beginning to really not like it. I’m beginning to pray for heavy rain, for no other reason than to ground Jonah. “Can you also try to be home to go with me to the dealer? I want to buy that Jeep, but I want you there with me. I don’t trust that car salesman not to try to swindle me.”
“How late is it open till?”
“Eight. We could probably make it tonight.”
“Not tonight, Calla. I’m beat. Can we try tomorrow?”
“Sure.” I smile, trying to push aside my frustration. “You should see the inside of Roy’s place.” I describe the impressive built-in cabinetry and the countless figurines. “He may be a jerk but he’s crazy talented.”
“Maybe after you milk his goats, you can hire him to build us something,” Jonah says with a smirk.
“I’m not milking any goats!”
“I heard their udders are soft.” Jonah shovels a forkful of salad and chicken into his grinning mouth.
With a heavy eye roll, I collect my dirty dishes, carrying them to the sink.
“Did you talk to Muriel about doin’ the marketing for the carnival yet?”
“No. I haven’t had the chance.”
“Don’t be afraid to challenge her, Calla.”
“I’m not afraid.” I tuck my rinsed plate into the dishwasher. “I just haven’t figured out exactly how to broach the topic in a way that she can’t shoot me down again.” And convince me that I have little to offer around here.
“Tell her you’re doin’ it, end of discussion.”
“So I should use your usual charm and brilliant powers of persuasion,” I say mockingly.
“I get what I want, don’t I?”
“We’re living here,” I mutter. “Why are you so interested, anyway? It’s just a carnival.”
He chews slowly, as if deciding how to respond. “Because I’d feel better knowing you’re meeting more people around here.”
My days certainly wouldn’t feel so long if I had places to go, friends to meet for coffee or a meal. Not that I can see myself lunching with John or Candace, or anyone who makes up the carnival planning committee. “The next meeting isn’t until the middle of July, so I have time.” I wander back over to lean on the island, my thoughts still tangled in the day’s events. “I think Roy has a daughter. Or had one. There’s this picture of him and a woman and a little girl in his cabin. It was old, from a long time ago. He was smiling.” I add, more to myself, “I wonder what happened.”
“Divorce or death,” Jonah says through a mouthful. “Those are the only two options.”
The latter sends a chill of unease down my spine as I think of that little girl’s cherub cheeks. “Maybe that’s why he moved to Alaska.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a person ran here to escape something.” Jonah reaches over to click a key on my sleeping laptop. He frowns at the life-sized, motion-activated witch prop that appears. “It’s a bit early for Halloween decorating, isn’t it?”
“It’s not for Halloween.” I toggle over to the video and play it so Jonah can watch the witch’s eyes glow red and the hair-raising cackle. “I was reading an article today, about how a lady in Eagle River put one of these by her trash bins and she hasn’t had any issues with bears in three years.”
“We don’t have issues with bears, either. We keep our bins in the workshop.”
“It’s not for the bins. It’s for the animal pen. Roy said there’s a persistent brown bear trying to break into his pasture, and we’re a lot closer to him than you think, if you cut through the forest. What if it decides to come over here, too?” I ordered three motion-activated cameras but they haven’t arrived yet. Not that they’ll do anything in the way of protecting us.
“So, you want to put this five-and-a-half-foot, skull-faced, red-eyed witch outside our fainting goat’s pen, to scare off this bear?” His frown still hasn’t wavered, though now it’s coupled with amusement.
&
nbsp; “No.” I set my jaw defiantly, daring him to challenge me. “I want to put one on each corner.”
* * *
Tree branches scrape the paint of our old pickup truck as I coast along Roy’s narrow laneway at five after six the next evening, having waited for Jonah as long as possible. I knew not to expect him. I know he’s out doing critical, life-saving work, and yet I’m disappointed all the same.
The dogs are barking when I pull up next to Roy’s truck and cut the engine. Muriel had Toby text to remind me to be here at six. She drove Roy home from the hospital at noon today—news that had me shaking my head. Those two have the strangest relationship.
I suffer a moment of fear and doubt before I squash it and hop out. Oscar’s menacing barks calm and his tail begins to wag. He comes close enough to sniff my thigh before darting back. Progress, I suppose. Even Gus has quieted, as if accepting my presence.
The barn door is already closed. I can hear the goats bleating inside. Even the chicken coop seems to have been tended to—chickens all gathered around what I’m guessing is a feeder, the ground covered in wood shavings. It would seem the evening chores have already been done. Maybe Toby came by?
With no sign of Roy anywhere and not sure what else to do, I climb the porch steps and knock on the door. There’s a creak and an unintelligible mutter, and the sound of feet shuffling across the wood floor before the door opens.
A day later and somehow Roy looks worse than he did lying on the barn floor, bloodied and covered in lumber. The gash on his forehead may be cleaned up, but it’s camouflaged by a mottle of purple and blue bruising that’s extended down to his left eye. His arm is bound with a temporary brace and secured in a sling. Beneath a plain white T-shirt, I can make out the binding that wraps his rib cage.
But probably the most concerning part about his appearance is his ashen complexion.
“Hey … Muriel told me to be here at six to help you with your evening chores.”
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